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I start to laugh, but it breaks apart before becoming anything useful.
Don reaches for his glass, then thinks better of it. “You’re sure?”
“I found a letter from Renny. To me, but about him.”
“When?”
“Before the funeral.”
“Paul.”
“I know.”
He exhales through his nose and looks toward the bottles behind the bar. For once, he seems to be searching for the right thing instead of the theatrical thing.
“Do you know his name?”
“Clint DeLuca.”
“That is a very gangster name. If you told me a man named Clint DeLuca owns a motorcycle, I wouldn’t doubt you.”
“I don’t know what he owns. I don’t know anything about him, really. Renny didn’t either. Not much.”
“But enough to hide him in a letter.”
I nod.
“And enough for the clause to matter.”
I glance at him.
“It may not matter.”
Don turns fully toward me now, one elbow on the bar, his long almost-mullet brushing the collar of his shirt. “You know it does, unless you’re thinking...”
I breathe out.
Landy passes behind the bar with a fresh bottle for one of the regulars, glancing over once. Don waits until he moves away again.
“Paul, you can’t hide this away. This isn’t one of your emotions. It’s a person.”
“I’m not hiding,” I say. “I’m… deciding.”
Don’s face stays calm. “It isn’t your decision. It was Renny’s.”
I hate him for that. Then I hate Renny, which is worse.
I look down at my hands. “He asked me to contact Linda.”
Don sighs. “Okay, so many names. Who is Linda?”
“The woman.” I have to look at him now. “Mother.”
Don studies me. “Linda and Renny were...”
“Together,” I offer. “At least once, apparently.”
Don slumps back in his seat. His head shakes just slightly, like he doesn’t want me to notice.
